Broken Porcelain Masks
by Sparkly-elf
Summary: And just like that, her mask shattered like a broken mirror. For Vossler, the beautiful Captain he is.


Author's Notes: Okay, I got tired of people writing about Vossler as some sort of man-bastard. So, here is a ONESHOT about him and his lovely nice side, with a difficult to grasp relationship.

Also, and yes, I have looked, it doesn't actually say IF Vossler is Dalmascan or not, so certain liberties have been taken, as you can see.

And remember folks, this is purely Fanfiction, as the website implies. There is no sillyness, albeit a dry and often sarcastic sort of humour, but that's about it.

Enjoy!

Warnings: Yes, it is M rated for a reason, that reason being there is sex in the fic, and (at the start) suggestions of sex.

_**Broken Porcelain Masks **_

It wasn't like he asked for the positions he's been in half the time, it was more like he fell into them really, and soon realised how easy it was, like he was made to be this.

Captain Vossler York Azelas, a fitting description, and during the first few months of receiving it, he still grew embarrassed when people called him by his full title. Or even just Captain. The plight of the Dalmascan army, he supposed. Basch however, was the only officer who said it without a grin.

He was of Rozzarian parents, both deceased from age seven due to illness, giving him beautiful dark skin and slate coloured hair, and his father's inherited deep voice, along with the cutting bite of his mother's wit. He grew up mostly in Dalmasca and Bhujerba after a slave trading kidnap from Rozzaria, and eventually worked his way to the army. He felt… rather at home, with people who also had their fair share of hardships, but many of them were lost, and replaced with new, yet just as expendable soldiers. The only one who seemed to stay relatively the same was Basch.

But there was another.

Just one

The reaction from her wasn't expected, but then again, she is a very unpredictable woman.

An operative from the Special Unit, those who infiltrated large parties, spies, if you will, working with intelligence for the King to learn of the enemy's standing point. She wasn't as high a rank as the others, and certainly not as high as Vossler, and though her work with them was discreet and occasional, to the Captain she was one of the men, really.

Fatil Ulysess punched him playfully in the arm when she was informed of his new rank, and got him frightfully drunk that night. It was ritualistic really. Most of their training they did on the same team, while Fatil moved off to lighter, more specialised areas under King Raminas and the army.

Highly intelligent, cocksure, often arrogant and sarcastic, he quickly realised from within the first days of meeting Fatil she was a difficult woman to figure out. Blonde, like most Dalmascans, eyes a steely cutting blue, and a lithe little body. Vossler was taller than most, but she was a bare five foot nine, and only reached up to his shoulder, making them a ridiculous looking drinking pair.

More beer that night, and he was glad she was so good at holding her drink, her dry humour and wit made the alcohol go down that much easier. Soon his vision became blurry, and he managed to convince her to retire when her swaying grew dangerous. Hesitantly, she agreed, and they soon collapsed in the solider residences that night.

Only three years, and yet they were close on a comfortable, often very drunk level. They rarely worked together, which made the occasional meetings all the more reason for booze to catch up on old times. She looked as she always did, hair tied back in a messy plait, wide smile set, and old slacks and top on, but she was comfortable and easy and wonderfully funny to be around. It was nice, to have that.

Sometimes, he was a little grateful she had no idea how much men respect her, look forward to being with her, and crave her attention. He was no different from them, often needing a dose of her sarcastic jokes, her stories of her work, and her deep conversational skills. Fatil was quite the talker, she was, and it was difficult not to listen.

Especially for Vossler, who couldn't help but be entranced by her mouth when she spoke to him.

-

Sometimes he wondered what was going through that head of hers. She was _crazy_. Good crazy. She could say something that would catch him completely off guard and leave him often bewildered and feeling thoroughly stupid with himself, though he suspected it was down to her weird amusement and a certain degree of voyeurism to just watch him squirm in discomfort like that. He didn't take it personally though, especially when she teased Basch, who was difficult to offend.

Such a tomboy sometimes. If he didn't find her so attractive, he would swear she was just another one of the soldiers in his team. One of the men.

A game of switch was called, and the men (including Fatil) sat around the small circular table with a Private named Jesseret dealing the cards and three others including Basch. Beer, gambling, friends, and Gods he was tired from training, but he needed this company. And he needed the money, being unnaturally good with card games.

Or so he liked to think.

The cards had been dealt many times over, and empty pint glasses cluttered around the table, loosing things in a slight haze. He swayed, albeit a little dangerously, but he was no different from the rest. Jess was at the fainting point.

"Jess, you savage…" He mumbled. Jess' was on his last card, and Vossler, unfortunately was loosing. Damn drink. Basch won the last hand too. Dammit, this would have to be his final game for the night.

"And where do you think you're going?" Fatil asked when he got up after loosing to Jess (who looked delighted with himself), brushing a blonde strand back with her hand not clutched around the near empty beer. She too, had thrown her cards down in disgust when Jess had won.

He grinned and shook his head. "I need sleep. Make sure to win back my money from Jess though."

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the back of his chair, matching his drunken grin with one of her own. "You know damn well I'm useless with cards Azelas. Sit down!"

That was a lie. She was good with these games, but she enjoyed the company more than the competition. Pushing another pint into his hand, she shook the chair impatiently as Jess dealt the cards again, and he reluctantly sat down with a sigh.

"Just _one_ more then."

"You say that now, Vossler," Basch quipped, picking up the fluttering cards, "and I'm sure you will regret the next few rounds in the morning."

He snorted, picking up his hand. Two nines, an ace of spades, a jack and three queens. Good so far. "I don't doubt that."

The hours passed by along with the drink, as their conversations slowly got seedier and seedier. What amazed him is how filthy the other soldiers could be, and how Fatil would just laugh, and occasionally slap one of them on the back, or even come out with one of her own. Eventually, Jess was reduced to peals of a silent laughing fit and slumped down on the table after a particularly horrible comment from the woman.

It was Jesseret's turn, but the lack of oxygen going to his lungs from laughter was preventing him from moving. Fatil curiously looked at his cards, put one down of them down for him, smiled, and put her last two cards down too, then sat back triumphantly when the rest of them threw down their hands with defeated notes.

"Cheating, Fatil?" He raised a brow at her, and she copied.

"Why, whatever do you mean, Azelas?" Her thin arms reached across at the money, pooling it in her hands, grin still set.

He just laughed and shook his head. She would pay him back eventually.

Then again, she might not. She was quite the unpredictable woman, and not only did he worry about his sanity around her, but his wallet too. Finally Jess's laughing fit lessened to a slow, breathy chuckle and he raised his head off the desk, his cheeks flushed with drink.

"Where did the money go?!"

Fatil said nothing, innocently looking at the ceiling while the rest of them chortled, Basch nudging her in the side. Putting the money back, she shuffled the deck and handed the cards back in the middle for Jess to deal. "Just one more."

She won the next game anyway, and most of them were too drunk and tired to argue.

-

The Special Unit were a group of stealth Knights, as King Raminas liked to describe them. Quiet, they usually infiltrated large parties, underground activity and obtained useful information for the King and the army. This made Vossler worry sometimes for Fatil's safety. Though she was perfectly capable of fighting should the time come, she was still just a woman, and a small and skinny one at that.

But she was unpredictable, and he soon learned that fact all over again when they sparred.

Only wooden swords of course, he would have never thought of using his broadsword against her, but even still she was near impossible to actually hit.

Fatil was fast, far too fast for him. Her quick, agile movements darted her out of harm's way, wooden sword jabbed quickly in his side, his legs, his arms, and though he managed to hit her, it never amounted to the fatal blows she managed to get him with. If they used real metal, Vossler would have died a mere three minutes into the match with the wood pressed against his jugular.

Maybe he was holding back, just that little bit. He didn't want to hurt her, of all people not her. But she noticed, and it really annoyed her, the fact that he thought her so weak that he must be gentle.

It was… different. He could easily kill many men in unreachable ranks, but just against one little assassin was proving difficult. She was trained to strike vulnerability, where as he was trained to break defence and defend in turn, while striking whenever he can. He was strength, and she was speed.

She wasn't strong enough to actually _hurt_ him, far from it. Though her blows connected with him times over, not once did he feel any pain, too hardened to it, too used to it. When he managed to get her with an overhead swing, she tried to block with her arm, and he felt her jerk in pain as the wood slammed against bone.

A grimace, but she wouldn't let it affect her. She was… stubborn like that.

"Don't you dare hold back, Azelas!"

He couldn't help it, of course. If he really hit her, there was a chance he might break something. Fatil wasn't a precious china doll, but she also wasn't as sturdy and strong as, say, Basch, who could easily take his blows when he couldn't block. She was thin, and looked fragile despite her protests. Though her body possessed womanly curves and beautiful tapering muscle, it was not exactly the type of brute force to be dealt with, and compared to Vossler's body, she may have been a twig.

Her frustration with him pushed her further, and the match continued. After hours of relentless fighting, they both stopped, breathless, tired, she leaned on her sword to hold herself up.

A sheen of sweat covered them both, unruly strands of her hair escaped her plait and hung around her face.

"I am not a child, Vossler." She panted, chest still heaving. That was dangerous, she only called him 'Vossler' when it was important, otherwise he was known by his last name. Funny, how he only allowed her to call him as such. He blinked at her, hand plucking the drenched white shirt he was wearing, in desperate need of a shower and some clean clothes.

"I never said you were."

"You hold back when we fight! I might as well have fought the wall to get a better reaction than that!"

She drew a long shuddering breath and stretched, sweat pooling around her chest and back, her hair messy. She placed the sword back on the rack of various sizes, he followed suit as they walked to the showers, a towel slung over his broad shoulders.

"I'm… sorry Fatil. Don't take it personally."

She snorted, removing the elastic from the long tresses. "I'm not made of _glass_, Azelas. I expected some semblance of a match, but as ever, you continue to treat me like a brat."

Though she was intelligent, she obviously didn't realise that he refused to fight her completely, because she was a woman. Not a child, or a doll, a _woman_. He could rather cut off his own hands and eat them than bring her to any harm, let alone by his own sword. Why he cared, he didn't really know, but the last thing he wanted to see was her beautiful face bloodied.

Two separate showers. One for men, one for women. Her hand on the door, she pushed it open, and his gaze brushed over her fast, a fleeting moment of wanting to go in there after her and plaster her against the cool shower tiles, but he shook his head, foolish.

She'd kill him if he did anyway.

-

He was more than just a bodyguard, he though idly.

The General requested he accompany Fatil from the Special Operatives group as an undercover bodyguard to a party in one of Archades' underground clubs. The lesser part, not as poor as Old Archades, but still pretty shabby. Coated in sleaze and poor characters pretending to be rich when really, they were just as downtrodden as everyone else, who always took a chance to steal what they could.

Apparently, there is word of a group of militant protesters against the King, and Raminas, horrified of them taking action, requests intelligence of their activities.

The only highlight was that it was with Fatil, and that hopefully she could make the night a bit livelier. _But_, she would be doing her job, gathering information, and possibly posing as someone entirely different, so their conversation for the night would probably be veered more to information, if any conversation at all. He was to make sure she came to no harm, an easy task, he hoped.

The dagger, compared to his sword felt like a toy in his hands. It made him uncomfortable, being the warrior he is to go into battle feeling completely defenceless. Then again, this wasn't like any battle he's been in before, nor was it particularly dangerous unless provoked. As long as Fatil did her job, she should be fine.

"My good Lord… Vossler Azelas?" She exclaimed, catching first sight of him.

It must have been one of the few times she's seen him in civilian clothing. Dark green, clingy t-shirt, soft black corduroy slacks, a watch, black shoes, and the wooden necklace his father wore before he died.

Mouth open, but grin set, she looked up at his taller frame appreciatively. He quirked a brow at her, even though his heart was pounding hard in his chest.

If he thought Fatil was pretty before, it was nothing compared to her now. Her blonde hair was cut in layers and elaborately styled, in a style similar to the Princess Ashelia, but _much_ longer. A pretty, black velvet jacket and a tight black top leaving nothing to imagination with rivalling and almost impossibly tight blue trousers. Make-up, manicure, and a sweet smelling perfume coupled with a _clack_ of her strappy leather, black high heels, he thought vaguely how difficult this will make it to guard her, and he salivated with swallow.

"Well well well, Fatil Ulysess, if I recognise you clearly." He teased, after a moment of shocked staring.

She elbowed him in the side, and they walked to the sky bay of the soldier's barracks, evening painting the sky a dusky pink and purple. The ride to Archades was uncomfortable on his part, but only because he couldn't help but _stare_!

So… so laid back, so different, so… Gods that's one tight pair of trousers…

A perfect, plucked blonde brow rose, snapping him from his daze, and she explained the details and protocol. No getting drunk, ease into the questions and if he's unsure to just leave it up to her, make sure to keep an eye on her, don't reveal his real name, so on and so fourth…

They were to be called Marius and Daria, to Vossler and Fatil.

"Nothing to worry about," she said, playing with her hair, "just a routine job. It shouldn't be too hard, considering the people we're dealing with aren't exactly dangerous. Just try and stay close to me for the night, just in case."

"Of course." He said simply, and nodded.

"Now, drinking conversation 101. These people are in a militant rebel group, so come across as though you don't agree with King Raminas's ideals, and you think the running of Dalmasca is a joke, clear?"

She saw his expression, and shook her head, sighing. "You don't have to _mean_ it, Azelas. If you prefer, I'll do the talking."

He nodded, folding his arms. Dalmasca was kind to him, his home, his adoptive country, and he would not ever dream of bad-mouthing it. For all his hardships, loosing his parents, being kidnapped for slavery, at yet treated kindly by the people of Rabanastre despite his odd upbringing, he took it as his new home. Then again, if this was to help Dalmasca…

Archades, though he hated the place, was very beautiful, especially at night when the streets were in the soft lighting of crystals. Rich buildings, excellent architectural structures loomed over the mosaic streets, paved with chattering nobles. But as they descended the view became dirtier, shabbier, and they were soon faced with the double-doors of an underground cub called _Club Thalassinon. _The darkness was pressing, almost choking in the narrow streets, din of music pumping from the beneath the slit.

With a wary, yet encouraging glance, she pushed open the doors, freeing a chorus of loud music from a podium behind the shabby bar of chrome and hazy neon lights.

The place was packed, and not one person noticed their arrival, which suited them fine. She grinned, motioning her head in the direction on the bar. He followed, hands in his pockets, making sure to avoid as many people as possible, while staying close to Fatil.

Sure, as a teen he's been to the clubs of Rabanastre before, and this one was no different, it was full of drunken men and women and teasing dancers, loud noise and music and seedy looking creatures lurking along the bar, waiting for a pretty lady to walk by.

Women glanced at him appreciatively, he cringed, and tried to ignore it. If he was drunk, maybe, but right now, Gods no. His dark skin often drew attention from women (and some men alike) of the paler kind.

Damn Al Cid, managing to create the illusion that all Rozzarian men were overly flirtatious lovers with passionate souls. Vossler however, grew up away from Rozzaria, and never adopted these traits, missing, as Fatil once put it, the "very sexy Rozzarain accent". He didn't even know how to speak his own _language_, but in all honesty, it didn't make any difference to him. He was a son of Dalmasca now.

And sure enough, Fatil also attracted attention with those _really tight _trousers of hers. Gods, it was hard not to stare… He caught up with her, glaring at a young teen whose hand was mere inches away from her backside as she leaned over the bar. The young man slinked off, before Vossler had a chance to give his fingers a rather wide berth for daring to touch _that_ backside in _those_ jeans.

"Two Pernod with ice, my good man." She thumped her fist on the bar; demanding attention and the barman quickly got her the drinks. Passing one to Vossler, she regarded his raised brow and said "Don't get _drunk_, I said. One won't hurt." He shook his head, but took it anyway. You can't argue with a woman like her. Leaning against the bar, she sipped her drink, tapping him gently on the side and gesturing to the group on the right, taking up the majority of tables on the short balcony of chrome, stone, and dark leather couches.

"That's the target up there." She said nonchalantly, knowing full well no one was truly listening save Vossler. "I'll talk to one of their men. They move on and off the dance floor and to the bar, shouldn't be difficult. You just stand there and look pretty, okay?"

He noticed the grin. "Is that not _your_ job?"

"My dear Marius, I wouldn't have suggested _you_ come along if I didn't want someone pretty, of course."

And with that, she winked, and walked forward with a swaying gait, almost teasingly as one of the men from the balcony stepped down. Vossler watched with amusement as she turned her head away from him, switching her glass to her left hand casually before bumping shoulders with the man and stumbling, on purpose of course, dropping her drink.

"Oh Gods," she simpered, glancing at Vossler for a moment, "I am _so_ sorry."

In her heels, it gave her the some semblance of imbalance, and as she stooped to pick up her glass, the poor man was faced with the slow slide of her top down her chest, and stopped dead at the sight before stooping quickly to help the woman.

"It was my fault." He said, a little too close to her for comfort. "Here, let me buy you a drink."

"Oh, no really it-"

"I insist!" He persisted, leading her over to the bar, back to Vossler. A small man, probably in his thirties, with black hair tied back and pale skin. Not particularly handsome or striking, but he has been fooled before…

"Your name?" He asked, handing Fatil her drink. She took it gratefully, leaning her elbow against the chrome.

"Daria, from one of the lower parts of Archades. And you?"

"Tesius, my lovely."

Fatil's eyes widened a bit, and she repeated the name, taking a sip with shining eyes.

Becoming impatient (and in no time at all), he stepped into the conversation himself, not willing to loose her at the beginning of the night. He doubted King Raminas would be too pleased to learn he failed his mission within the first ten minutes. "Why Daria, those heels do throw you off sometimes."

She looked up at him, flashing a smile. Tesius's face fell when he strained his neck to look up at Vossler, obviously outdone, he hopes of a lovely lady for the evening cut short.

"And you are…?"

"Ah, Tesius, this is my brother, Marius." She clapped him on the chest, and Vossler inclined the rim of his glass at the man in greeting. They never agreed on _that_ term, but if she insisted…

"Your… brother?" He brightened up after that, eyes slipping over Fatil, who was nonplussed. "My, you certainly don't look alike."

The comment was waved off, Tesius looked far too happy with the information so it would be useless to argue the point. They chatted vaguely about the club and obscene price of drinks, Vossler silent for the most part. He noticed Fatil using less of her knowledge in the conversation, and her proficient use of sarcasm, her startling insight. It was odd, hearing her gush like that…

"You must come to our table," the man announced, gesturing over towards the small balcony of chatting people, "we love introducing new people to the group."

"Oh, how nice of you." She simpered, and he held out his arm, which she casually linked as he led her over, Vossler following, puzzled and uncomfortable. He wasn't used to situations like this, under a different name and act, and Fatil wasn't helping either. They joined the other table along the balcony, Tesius making a space along the cushiony loveseats for her, while the other side made a space to accommodate him. He took it after only a moment's hesitation, and the woman beside him (who in all fairness was rather pretty) batted her eyelashes at him.

The man, dangerously close to Fatil, leaned his arm around the back of the couch, around her shoulders, and she acted as if she had simply not noticed. Vossler narrowed his eyes. If he even dared to touch her, both those arms would be simultaneously snapped in two.

Introductions were passed around, and they were quickly thrown into the conversation that the group of perhaps eight people or more were having about Ashelia taking King Raminas's place in the family when he passes away.

Tesius put down his drink. "Now, enough about this." He said. "Can we not have a break from fiddling around with politics?"

Fatil however, intervened. "Personally, I don't see the point of Dalmasca even having a King." She said lowly, and laying a hand on the man's knee.

His eyes darted from her hand, to her small, encouraging smile, and added two and two, getting 69, as a man only could. He grinned and took his drink back off the table, the group continuing after a second of analyzing.

"You are against it too?" The woman beside Vossler asked Fatil, who nodded.

"Naturally. It's ridiculous really, such a small country with good resources, and so close to Archadia too. They are foolish, not to join."

With that she sipped her Pernod, the ice clinking in the glass, condensation clinging to the side and it rolled down her fingers.

"I agree." The woman said, Vossler forgot her name already. "That Raminas could do so much good if he just gave up the empire, but he stays stubborn and foolish."

Fatil laughed, a tinkling little laugh he never heard before, mock amusement he hoped. "Stubborn is right."

Vossler kept his mouth shut, concentrating on keeping his face indifferent and seemingly bored, though the grip on his glass was becoming dangerously tight. The music was still playing, smoke from cigarettes wafting through the air along with the scent of alcohol and mixed perfumes. It was choking, and slightly bemusing.

"You know," Tesius lowered his voice slightly, "some people are quite _against_ King Raminas, if you know what I mean…"

She raised a brow at him; Vossler saw the grip on his knee tighten for a second, a grin sliding easily over her face. "Really… in what way…?"

He gestured vaguely with his hand not around the couch. "Oh, you know just some small operations here and there, nothing too major."

A look of surprise passed over her face, and she raised a manicured hand to lightly brush against her lips. Staring around at them, then catching Vossler's gaze with the merest trace of amusement, she said, "So, you people are… an… insurgence?"

"Of sorts. " A man on the opposing couch finished for her.

She gasped, in fake shock. "How… interesting! I've always been eager to, if you will, change things for the better."

Her blue eyes caught his again, and he saw the amusement in them. She was lying through her very teeth, playing them for all they were worth. Though Vossler had no doubt in his head that this would be easy, with Fadil it was all too fluid, she was subtle with her manipulations, so subtle he almost thought he was seeing a different, darker, idiotic side of her, but then quickly realised the dancing laughter in the shining blue. This was her work, and she obviously was very good at it. She could act and play better than he expected.

"What about you, handsome?" The woman beside him, slightly undone by drink batted her eyelashes again. "Where do you stand?"

He pondered, for a moment, Fatil glancing fearfully at him for a second, but she quickly regained her composure, then looking pleadingly at him. If he messed up now, what good would this whole mission do?

"I believe Dalmasca could to with a better ruling, yes." He stated simply, drinking a larger amount than before, to stop himself from blurting out his real thoughts, grip on the glass dangerously tight.

The talking continued, now with Vossler's agreement of them, they spoke albeit a little cryptically of their exploits, but under the influence of drink their words were easily deciphered. Gaining information was all together easier than he expected. Though, these people were only small scale militants who liked creating a little ruckus, in the end, really, were ridiculously easy to restrain once he thought about it.

Soon, they veered off the topic, and he couldn't help but stare as Fatil was engaged in a decidedly quiet and rapt conversation with Tesius. His arm was still around the couch, they faced each other, a smile, almost pained, across her face. Her legs were crossed, the sharp looking heel of her shoe against the table.

The man leaned in, to whisper something in Fatil's ear. He laid his hand gently on her thigh, squeezing it, and a fleeting look of disgust passed over her features, but was quickly replaced with a smile, then a gasp as he finished what he was saying, and he pulled away, leering at her, his hand still on her thigh. She giggled, though it was strained.

Vossler didn't quite know what that was, but he was smart enough to know by his lecherous grin what the man _really_ wanted. A jolt of anger quickly passed over him, and the grip on his glass tightened to such an extent that it smashed violently, embedding shards in his palm.

He swore viciously and stood, shaking the glass and ice from his fingers, letting the rest fall to the floor.

"Marius! Are you alright?" The voice was Fatil's, and he swivelled his head to look at her, noticing they were all staring with shocked expressions. The man's hand was still on her thigh.

"Yes, my apologies. Sometimes I… I don't know my own strength."

Still shaking his injured hand in effort to remove the splinters, the woman previously sitting next to him looked up through brown lashes. The rest were still staring, even as he reached down and took hold of Fatil's arm.

"Can we talk privately, Daria?" He said, tugging on her arm. "_Now_." Not giving her much of a choice, he hauled her upwards, away from Tesius's grip, and led her through the crowds, outside the double-doors, her heels clicking as she was unceremoniously dragged through the dance floor.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" She hissed, jerking her arm away from him when they finally got outside and pushing him hard, palms flat against his chest.

"Me?" He hissed back. "I might ask you the same question! You have received all the information you needed, so why did you persist?"

"Spare me, Azelas! Did you really think that was all the details?"

Fatil was rather… frightening when angry. Vossler had been told he orders with often cold, stone command, and quickly grew impatient if pushed. He was tall, broad, and highly intimidating, his rank and charge and conviction enough to make any man's knees wobble when furious. Fatil however, was rather unexpected. Usually calm and often impassive, when she finally snapped, and an irate snarl broke over her features she turned into something entirely different. And it surprised him, how quick she came to anger, but then he didn't really know what made her tick.

He folded his arms as she bristled with rage. "From my point, it was. How could you let Tesius _do_ that?"

"This is my job, Azelas-"

"_Your job_?" He swore at her, and she copied his snarl to the best of her ability, despite his towering form over her, she was never one to back down while being intimidated. She wasn't afraid, she was livid. "I must have missed promiscuity in your job description."

"Oh _please_. He's a _man_, and information is only so easily drawn out of them with the right persuasion."

He couldn't help but stare, as the sentence slowly dawned on him, and was beginning to get suspicious of what exactly her job entailed. He seemed to have missed the part where she was supposed to play the simpering woman for the evening. "The right…? You have done more of this then?"

An… odd look passed over her face then. Her features fell, and her defence was shattered. She looked down, blue eyes searching the grimy path for something to say, before reaching a hand to her mouth. She was uncomfortable, and what surprised him was that he has never see the woman like this before.

"Of course I have." She said, meeting his eyes finally with an indifferent expression. "My own verbal manipulation can only go so far, Azelas. There are times when I am required to use other methods to entice out information."

He knew that look, the indifferent stare, arms folded protectively around her bust, for he had used that look many times through his life too. She was building a wall around herself, pretending not to care, making believe it didn't really matter, but he knew better. Her body language then, was easy to read. She hated it, he could tell.

His eyes widened a bit, realizing, but needing to hear her say it, admit it, just so he could be sure, and so she could hear herself say it. If he was right about this…

"And these times would be…?"

Sighing, she turned away from him, clasping her hands behind her back, and mumbled, "During post coital bliss, mostly…" But she trailed off, remaining impassive.

Was this what she needed to do? Does it really require for her to sleep with the opposition just to squeeze the last dregs of information out of them? What was so important, that she had to give up part of herself, for nothing? Fatil's success rate was one of the highest ranks in the Special Operative's unit, so was this the real reason why? To turn her into a begging prostitute slipping away with stolen information, while the men she used (and who used her) stole something for themselves too?

Close to her, her back was turned, and he was still livid, still angry, but for an entirely different reason altogether. He put a hand on her shoulder, "You are worth more than this, Fatil. This work has turned you into a whore."

Fatil didn't slap him. She whirled around and flat out _punched_ him hard in the jaw. He did not stumble or fall, but his head jerked back, teeth cracking painfully, not expecting it, and stared down incredulously, shocked at her reaction.

She drew herself up to full height, fists balled, chin up and proud. "How _dare_ you!" She snarled. "If I am a whore, then I am a whore to protect Dalmasca! King Raminas, and all the men, the soldiers who give their lives, may I be the slut who gathered the warnings of threats for them. May I be the prostitute to be paid with information to protect our King." She pointed an accusing finger at him. "And don't you _ever_ look down your nose at me for my sacrifice. I would gladly give my limbs, my eyes, my very soul to protect Dalmasca and our King, but if it require that I give my body, it is something I would willingly do to save our country!"

Rubbing his jaw, he looked down on her with something akin to pity. Three years, _three_, and yet there was so little he knew, so much he failed to ask. Must this be asked from the female operatives from the Special Unit? Were they not human too? How can their King allow something like this to happen?

She huffed, calming down, and stormed off. He watched her back as she turned the corner, and hurried to catch up with her.

-

Unfortunately, Fatil's anger with him carried her to a hotel in Archades, and he was still just as determined, if not more so when he asked for her room number.

The lift was broken, so he took the stairs, contemplating what he should say to her, anything to get the point across that he didn't mean to make her out to be a slut. Gods, he meant anything but that, he just didn't expect her to come out with something… quite like that. He was sickened, with the army, with the Special Operatives, with the King for allowing, and encouraging such a thing.

Something about it wasn't that surprising, to be honest. What aggravated him was it had to be _Fatil,_ of all people. It wasn't as though he was so close to her to the point where he knew everything about her, but he knew about her enough to care, and had to admit, he did… maybe just a little.

It was an attraction, he was sure of it. And it aggravated him because she was angry with him for caring about her well being. He rarely cared about anything other than war, battle and a few close friends in the army. Perhaps he went the wrong way about it the first time, but there was always a chance of redemption.

The hotel was in the typical Archades décor, red carpeting, terracotta brickwork and calm yet rich paintings lining the walls. The door was dark wood, and he rapped his fist against it, desperate to plead his case, make her forgive him.

She answered, a haughty frown etched across her face, her jacket divested leaving her almost too revealing top behind, leaning against the doorframe.

"Fatil, please-"

"Don't." She interrupted. "You have said enough."

She attempted to close the door, but he blocked it with his forearm, his foot in between the hard wood before she could shut it.

"Listen to me." He snapped.

"Azelas-"

But he pushed his way into the room and shut the door behind him. Scoffing, she walked away from him, and further into the room. He followed, watching her fold her arms and cock her hips to the side, and tried his best to speak.

"Please, Fatil I meant no offence." He said hurriedly.

She sighed. "My job isn't easy, I'll have you know. Are you under the impression that I enjoy doing this?"

"Of course not!" He gestured openly to her, though he was still talking to her back.

Turning her head to the side, she regarded him with narrowed eyes. "It isn't easy, and of course, I will only resort to that if it is absolutely necessary. But you must understand, I find no joy in doing it. No fulfillment. I simply do it… for the sake of Dalmasca, in the hopes that our soldiers go into battle with a better knowledge of the enemy's standing point." She turned away, her blonde hair falling back down over her shoulder. "What more can I do for my country, than give my life, my soul to it?"

Personally, Vossler didn't think it was worth it to a point. He too, would give anything, everything he had for the sake of Dalmasca, and in return it gave him the glory of heated battle, the rush of war and the training he used to fight with the grace and speed as good as any out there. Nothing compared to it, the blood, the thump of soldiers feet as they drew nearer, and the quick slash and hissing shots of swords and arrows.

Fatil however, gave something different, and in return, got something different. She gave part of her that should only ever be kept private, in the hopes that the King would hold a better undertsanding of the battlefield. And though the information was useful, it shouldn't have to be paid for like that, for all it was worth. She was a woman, a Hume, not a machine or a mere object with purpose, but an intelligent and insightful person. It was a waste, to be used like that.

What she gained from that, he didn't know. Part of him didn't really want to either…

He approached nearer. "Do all Special Operatives do this?"

He knew he was treading on dangerous grounds, but he had to know, why, when, who, and how?

She breathed outwards slowly, gazing out the window as if deliberately trying to not face him. It could have been shame, or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. "Only the women, really. The men are more of assassins."

It wasn't fair, he thought briefly. _This_ wasn't fair, not to her, and certainly not enough for the sake of Dalmasca. This information can't, and should not be so important. And though she may think it is, he highly doubted she was being true to herself.

"Is it… Is it worth it, Fatil?" He bit out.

She stilled, her gaze solely out outside in the pressing darkness. The lights of Archades glittered against the glass, her reflection was misted, and he saw as she gathered her thoughts, her expression wilting. She shook her head, giving a low, impossibly defeated chuckle. "Sometimes, I wonder that myself."

It was… funny. He could kill and dive into battle as though he were diving into the ocean, he could take down raging armoured Seeq and Bangaa crying for blood and battle, and he could lead an army past danger and into victory. He could train for strenuous hours, and sew gashes back together without turning a hair. And yet he was finding it… troublesome, to simply reach out and touch her shoulder. It was as though his hand was caught midway between daring and duty. How… how strange.

"Of course, I understand if you think lowly of me now." She said, with another one of those odd laughs. "I am nothing, if not understanding of the way men's minds work."

That made him reach out far further than he intended. Comfort was not a specialty in his book, but he couldn't think of any other way to help her then, and the tension in the room could have reduced a lesser man to tears. What was meant as a simple touch at first quickly turned into him wrapping his large hands around her wasit and pulling her back against his chest. Being much taller, he rested his chin on her head, catching the gaze of her reflection in the window. She remained stiff and still, her hands resting on his forearms.

"I think nothing less of you." He said quietly, while still managing to get his point across. "My apologies, for saying such a thing. I was… rather shocked, by what you said. I had no idea you were making such a sacrifice, or any woman from the Special Unit, for that matter."

She said nothing, merely looking down the the carpeting, away from the reflection in the window. Her posture remained unmoving, and he mused it may just be a defense mechanism on her part. A way of building walls around herself, they were much alike. She didn't like letting her guard down around others, and neither did he.

Her hair smelled nice, flowery, washed, and human. The top was small; the creasing Lycra material felt fluid under his palms. Her breath was even, still tense.

"Please Fatil; believe me when I say I meant no offense. I think you of more worth that that."

She nodded. "It's alright. I was afraid I would loose you, Azelas. You, Basch and Jesseret are the only… _friends_ I have. My position has separated me from others, you see. It felt nice, to be close to people for a while."

"You talk as if I am leaving." He stated.

"You might not now." She answered. "But you will. You feel the need to comfort me, but you will soon see the gravity of my rank, and try to distance yourself from me. It has happened before."

He huffed, his grip around her tightening a little. "I am not your past associates. You will find I am much more different than others."

She raised a brow. "So sure of that? You seem like every other Dalmascan Knight."

"I am like you." He said. "Closed, introverted around those whom I do not share a friendship with. You simply happen to show it differently. I am silent, where as you pretend." It was true; sometimes he wondered which mask he was talking to when talking to her. Her masquerading personality often hid the real one underneath, the woman who just liked to sit down and talk and get drunk and play cards. The one who smiled openly and punched him in the arm. The one who joked and listened. The fierce determination, the loneliness, the acceptance.

She was wearing another mask now, one of indifference. He was starting to understand her, and he could see the underlayer of anger and sadness. Yes, perhaps he was starting to understand her, maybe just a little more than he did before.

"Perhaps you are right…"

His words, she obviously didn't want to hear them. He watched as her eyes darted back and fourth across the rich carpet, mouth open slightly, searching for something within herself. And he couldn't help but watch, as the realisation dawned under the mask, and she found out a little about herself too.

But this wasn't about him. For all the arrogant, warring man he is, this was about her now.

"Did they ever hurt you?"

Cerulean eyes snapped up, catching his in the glass, a strange mix of brown, black and burgundy, and she shrugged.

"Rarely." A mediocre answer, and she looked to the floor again, he saw the mask crack a little as she frowned, and the grip on the material of his t-shirt tightened. "I cried the first time."

Ever the master of control, but now her face crumpled for a second, and then returned to indifference, her fingers loosening in the material. That… looked like it was rather painful to remember. But then, who wouldn't cry? He supposed, being the hot headed woman she is, full of self-worth and respect, hated the fact that she lost control then, and cried, as opposed to being in pain. She didn't want to be ashamed. It was just her job to do this.

How… how sad.

"You are worth much more than this."

She huffed. "You reinterate that point."

Frustrated and angry with her refusal to believe him, he let go and turned her by her shoulders. _Don't you __**ever **__look down your nose at me!_ He never did, and he never will. She was matching his glare with one of her own, mouth set in a hard line, brows furrowed, blue eyes flashing like swords. But he could fight; he was more of a warrior than she was.

"Listen to me." He shook her shoulders, for emphasis. "You _are_ worth more than this."

"And _I _reinterate. This is my job, Azelas." She spat. "I am worth everything I do within my station."

"How could you say that? For all your intelligence and beauty, how could you say you are not worth more?"

And just like that, her mask shattered like a broken mirror. For the first time he's ever seen her, Fatil Ulysess was lost for words. She faltered and her gaze fell from his. He watched as her mask completely broke down and left behind a frightned woman, ashamed and upset and angry with everything and everyone.

Or so he thought. A blush darkened her cheeks under the makeup, her eyes wide at the floor and his shoes, and she shook slightly.

It was a while before she spoke again, and his faltering heart couldn't help but beat against his chest when she looked up at him, full of doubt, her hands curling around his wrists gripping her shoulders.

Gods, she was beautiful. For all the use, all the mistakes of her rank, she is beautiful. No man could take that from her now, not here.

"Do you think so highly of me?" It was quiet, and pleading. The mask was gone now, so open, showing off this wonderfully human woman underneath, and he knew that the times she talked to him and the other soldiers were not fake ones. She was real now, and with that reality brought her shameful heart, and her _need_ to be accepted.

He could understand that, and for all her beauty, didn't have to lie about it. He would never lie to her anyway, because she would know, one way or another.

His heartbeat was steady and rhythmic; he allowed a smile to side easily over his face against his own will. The grip loosened on her shoulders, and he watched the glittering sadness slowly ebb away at the contact of his hands moving down the softest skin he's ever touched.

That was another thing he found funny about her. In a way, her targets never took advantage of her, and oddly enough _she_ was the one who took advantage of _them_. She was the one who used them, and yet she didn't want to, it was just her job. Quite the paradox.

"I think the world of you, Fatil." And that wasn't a lie.

There was never a time he's been so close to the woman before, and now that he was, he felt incredibly daring and the tension in the room was suddenly directed at her. She blushed again; unable to take her eyes from his; even though he could see the intent stare he was giving her was making her uncomfortable. He raised a hand to her cheek, turning her to face him when she tried to look away, feeling the matte finish of the powder under his thumb when he brushed it along her jaw. It travelled up along her chin, then across her bottom lip, to which she shuddered visibly from the contact.

Tilting his head, studious, she looked away in utter embarrassment, both hands reaching to his wrist, pulling it closer to her face. That, in its own way, was a subtle invitation in his book.

Thank the Gods for creating such a beauty. Such utter perfection. The urge was strong, and coming on fast, making him want more than what was being offered to him. But he could easily wait. He is nothing if not a master of control.

He leaned down, holding her there, free arm sliding palms down around to her waist, and kissed her. Perhaps Al Cid had gotten something right about Rozzarian men and their ease with women. It was almost like a well versed dance, something known more than learned.

It was hesitant, and warm, Gods, it was warm. Her eyelids fluttered shut, her grip tightened on his wrist momentarily and he pulled away, watching as her lips curved back into place.

There was of course, doubt and fear in her eyes as she met his, and he wasn't surprised. How unprofessional of him to kiss her, and on a mission at that, in a hotel room in the middle of Archades, but he was far past the point of caring.

A mere hair's breadth away from her lips, and her brows furrowed, eyes glittering in hesitancy. "Vossler…" She never said his first name unless it was important, but now was a different situation he supposed.

He couldn't let her finish, knowing full well that she would try her best to talk him out of such behavior, and how much this would affect their status and rank. But she needed this; _they_ needed this, this change in routine and atmosphere, this sudden moment just for themselves. So he pressed them together again, in urgency. His palm slid from her cheek into her hair, inhaling her flowery scent, pulling her waist tighter to meet his, the tingling warmth of her lips spreading until it nearly covered him completely.

He walked her back until she was against the long window. She gasped as her bare shoulders connected with the cold glass, and he swallowed it by gently biting her lower lip, pulling at the soft muscle, his shoulders rolling forward towards her, pressing her further. Reaching up, she curled her hands around his neck, and he brought them closer again when she finally let him in, another of her masks, her wall failing and crumbling when he slipped his tongue in meeting hers with an eager slide and curl, letting out the smallest and barely audible of longing moans.

But he heard it. He damn heard it.

He broke away, slightly breathless, his hand leaving the soft hair to brace against the window, cool glass and warm skin was quite the contrast, one she too was undoubtedly feeling. Eyes still squinted shut, he found her jaw, and trailed his lips feather-light along the bone, growing in intensity and depth as they travelled down her neck and her fingers wound in his shirt.

"W-wait, Vossler please." She was breathless too, and had to pause to inhale sharply when his teeth grazed over her neck. "_Please_."

He murmured, raising his head to hers but keeping their lips in close proximity, anything to feel them as the soft skin grazed his with every syllable.

"We… we can't-"

"And why not?" He interrupted.

"Because I… You shouldn't do this just… just because you pity me."

He widened his eyes at the proclamation, shook his head with a low chuckle, and kissed her hard and deep and fast, making sure to explore every inch of the mouth opening so willingly to his. He pushed her head back against the glass, languidly stroking her tongue with his, all lips and movement and perfect, wonderful heat. When he finally pulled away, sucking on her bottom lip, he smiled again, easy and slow.

"Did that seem like _pity_ to you?"

"I-"

"I do not do this simply because you are a convenience, Fatil. You are but twenty-five years to my thrity-four, and for three of those years I have spent wanting. Pity has nothing to do with it."

She paused, looking up at him earnestly, still hesitant, but her flushed lips and face told a different matter. It was as though she was trying to stop herself, and he thought idly that she was failing, and he couldn't have been happier to see her fail at that moment.

"Wanting?" She asked in disbelief, and even as the word rolled out of her mouth she seemed to sag in his grip, her voice verging on breathless. "You know nothing of want, Vossler."

Still, her unpredictability never ceased to leave him speechless. Then again, he couldn't exactly talk when her hands on his shoulders pulled him down and pressed their mouths together with such force it almost hurt. Almost. It was her turn to take the lead, with her knee she nudged him forward and off the glass backwards, walking him until his long legs were pressed against the bed and she _pushed _all her weight, until toppling him over (willingly, but he liked this game where it was going) onto the creaking matress.

The intensity of the situation suddenly lurched forward as she straddled his hips, and his palms against her waist roved of their own accord, pulling her further towards him, her fingers tangling in the dark curls of his slate coloured hair. He pushed his heels against the floor, his left hand reaching backwards to pull them up along the bed, and she broke away as their noses knocked together, but quickly reclaimed his mouth with hers.

He didn't expect her to take the lead, nor did he expect her reaction to all this to be so… inviting. Then again, the only women he's seemed to have throughout the course of his life were mostly whores and chaste lovers he couldn't even remember the names of. Brief, fleeting moments of steamy encounters, both left well played and satisfied, but this was very different. This was something done between two, and by her hard, almost forceful movements, he would almost swear they were training again, if a very twisted version of foreplay this was.

_Don't you dare hold back, Azelas!_ For once, he actually considered not to, for in the end, she was just a woman. And she was just as eager and willing as he was.

Fatil's hands, he noticed, were always cold. Even as her long fingers pushed up the hem of his clingy shirt, the skin absorbed no warmth from him, and it left a quivering trail up his stomach. He aided her, until the offending material was gone and then there were soft sheets and even softer skin and cold hands on his flanks. Though the action did not go without a balance, and he broke away from her again to pull her black top up over her head and roughly turn her over onto her back, lips against her neck, stomach heaving and quivering when bare skin made contact.

She was clinging tightly to him, hands around his bicep, but her fingers weren't even long enough to encirle it.

"I ca_nnn_-… can't believe we're _doing_ this." She hisses, as he travells lower down her chest, and he can only murmur something back, too absorbed in the racing heartbeat barely audible under her ribcage, and the heaving that grew along with his trek down, using his tongue so blatantly it was almost a sort of sexual arrogance.

He nuzzled the lace out of the way, and her raspy heaving breaths fell sharp against his ears as he moved outwards, all tongue and teeth, biting the soft flesh, his tongue brushing against something that made her throw her head back and push her hips forward. He used the momentum to reach back and unhook the metal clasp, near tearing it from her and throwing it away with the rest of their clothes. Hastilly bringing his mouth back, he caught her in mid-arch by her hips and pulled her body against his, _tight_, tongue encircling and mouth closing and sucking and her hands left his shoulders to fist in the sheets.

Her moans were breathy and short, and they reached a higher pitch when he hooked his thumbs in the tight waistband of her trousers, his right hand reaching down to fumble with the buttons. His mouth left her chest to lock with hers, her hips rotating aginst his, and he replied with a harsh push of his own, drawing out a long cry from her, and sharp inhale from him.

The offending denim was still utterly refusing to budge, despite his best efforts and he rolled his eyes, looking down at her with a grin, brow to brow. "Did you _paint_ these on?"

Another kiss, hips still moving against his. "If you turn over, I can remove them."

Fatil didn't wait for his snappy reply until she pushed him onto his back with a hard kiss and fluidly sat upwards and off him. He raised himself up on his elbows, watching her as she strolled forward, with that same swaying motion to her hips he saw in the bar, her back to him, curved spine and smooth shoulders.

Vossler cocked his head, amused as she raised her left leg, unstarpped the heel in one fluid motion and dropped it to the floor, then repeating with the other, her already small frame becoming even smaller without the elevation of six inches. He found it odd, how she could be so breathless and unsure one mintue, to suddenly suggestive and salacious in no time at all. Then again…

She was the most unpredictable woman he's ever met. That went witout saying.

Buttons were slid free, and he watched with rapt facination as she slipped the tight demin down around her knees, bending the rest of the way in an action that made him curl his fingers in the sheets and bite his lip in restraint. The coarse fabric pooled around her ankles, and she gracefully stepped out of them, turning with an almost fluid half spin and slowly, too slowly walked back with suggestive eyes and her hair cascading in blonde rivers down her back and front.

Gods, she was beautiful. The lacy undergarments clung to her like a second skin, see-through, but not by enough. Her body was tapering and curvy, teasing and it both thrilled him, and burned away at him that she made no attempt to cover up with her slow slink towards him, allowing his eyes to travel where they pleased.

And she did so too. Blue roved over his shoulders, down his arms, over his barrelling chest, around the pure muscle of his stomach with a look that could only be classified as deep satisfaction to what was laid out so prettily for her on the sheets. She too bit her lip, and spoke, somewhat low and purring.

"How did we end up here, Azelas?" She asked, laying hands on his knees, leaning over him, but pulled away when he tried to take a kiss, smirking. "For all three years of being in your company, why now?"

He smirked then, a hand tangling in her hair. "Complaints?"

Fatil huffed, a hand subtly treading across his thigh to flick open the first button on the black corduroy front, and he tried to will the shudder spurred by it down. "Of course not. You talk of hiding sides, yet this is a side of you I have never seen."

A snort. "You expect me to act like this more often?"

"Not in the least." It ended with a purr, smirk still adamant on her face, as her finger pulled the zipper down, spare hand stroking teasing along the inside of his leg. "It just makes me curious. How many more sides of you can I tease out, before the night is over?"

"Tease away." He offered, pulling her forward, her brow against his, noses brushing. "But you might be disappointed."

"How so?" A surprised look, and the zipped was pulled down all the way.

"I have fewer sides to myself, than you do. But I may wear a mask, should I see fit."

"Oh?" She gracefully slid ontop of him, her knees either side of his hips, elbows braced against the bed on either of his shoulders. Her hair fell into his face, and he brushed it away. "It seems you have taken my advice, on being gentle."

It was Vossler's turn to look surprised. He traced his thumb along her chin, her lip. "Meaning…?"

She shrugged, still smirking. "It seems I do not know you as well as I thought." She said lowly, her lips brushing against his jaw, until they reached his ear, and he shuddered then, when she spoke. "I expected you to be rougher than this."

Any retort he may have had at that point was forgotten when she tongued the shell of his ear, and he bit back a gasp, his hands travelling down to her hips and tightening around the smooth bone. He turned his head away, granting her better access to the teasing feelings, tingling heat curing through his skin as he pulled her hips down hard into his, the muffled gasp againt the cartialge was something to be desired.

He gave up to it, pushing his hips up to meet hers in slow rotations, and it was undoubtedly having an effect due to the quiet moans in his ear. His hands travelled around a smooth backside, cupping the tense flesh, fingers sliding underneath the lace.

"I wonder… how much… _ah_… I could sell with the kn-knowledge that… _you_, of all p-people have a soft spot… _oh_… just below you ear…"

"W-wouldn't you…?" It was difficult, the restraint at the point. The breasts pushed against his chest, and the lips travelling from his ear, to his neck, a tongue teasing over his Adam's Apple, and the hips pushing effortlessly against his, making him dizzy. Though the iron control he had snapped like a taut metal wire when her hand reached out, flicked a switch beside the bed, and the room was shot into darkness as the lights went out completely. His eyes shot open, and he could only barely see her eyes shining down at him, the glitter of moisture on her bottom lip and her hair illuminated by the lights of Archadia from the window.

There was something unbearably _wrong_ about the darkness, and what was done beneath it, but what ever it was it drove his senses into overdrive and he jerked up, kissing her hard and turning her over onto her back, hips tightly clasped together, and she tried to moan but the pressure was far too much, and she could only kiss back and whimper.

The protesting throb ached away at him, and he ground against her for all it was worth, she, whimpering beneath him and pulled spasmodically on his dark hair, pushing her hips up to meet his with all the strength she could muster.

He nearly tore the last piece of lace away from her, pulling it ferociously down off her legs, and he could only imagine the dark blush settling on her cheeks, her quivering lip, but he was far, far past the point of caring and sucked on her ear, as she had done to him.

A strangled, surprised gasp, then a low rumbling moan when he free hand went between them, and he moved back to allow for more room, fingers rubbing and teasing her, and for all her beauty it couldn't compare to just how good it sounded, and felt for him to be _doing_ this. Warm, and perfect, and Gods it was just wrong and dammed sinful, but it couldn't be helped, not now.

Two fingers pushed inside, drawing out a harsh, breathy cry and moved languidly, gradually picking up a pace while his thumb rubbed the outside, and she was arching upwards to the touch, the gasps quickly melting into harsh moans and quiet cries of his name. He took advantage of her open mouth to kiss her again, thrusting his tongue deep as compared to the easy slide that was earlier. Her noises vibrated against his lips, and he too found himself hard pressed for air just listening to her.

She suddenly pushed her head back, her hair splaying out across the sheets, her nails digging hard into his shoulders, and she choked out, "Please, I don't… _aaah, Vossler _stop!"

Fatil was shaking hard, her breath short and raspy and he stayed his ever moving fingers. Shakilly, she lay her hands on his face, regarded him with watering, earnest eyes through the darkness of the room. "I-I want… I want this, so very much. Please, give it to me, Vossler…" It was laboured, but she managed to get her point across, and his heartbeat raced wildly at the last sentence.

Her breath hitched as he gently pulled his fingers out, and almost breathlessly kissed her just to stay the feelings for a little longer. She was too far gone, and he wanted nothing more than to draw this out for as long as possible.

Cold, long fingers, still cold, pushed down the corduroy trousers he was wearing, and he aided her by kicking them off with the rest of his clothes, tongues curling and twisting together in the heat of it all. Some of the longer curls of his dark hair fell about his face, and she gently pushed them away, hips moving to try to get to his, and then whimpering when she failed. And he smiled.

Despite how much he tried to draw it out, he was seriously loosing his original idea, especially as he finally laid his hips to hers, and she ground up into him. His arms wobbled, and he choked out a cry completely without his consent, pushing back as she pushed into him, then stilled, despite her protest.

He braced his elbows on either side of her shoulders, brow against hers, her arms curled around his neck and fingers winding in his hair, mouth quivering and begging for it. So he kissed her, with all the passion he had in him, for all her beauty and everything about her nothing felt so right to him then. He drew back, a hand going to her hip to brace her, and pushed inside.

He clamped his eyes shut, the grip on her hip must have been agonising considering how tight his fingers were against her skin and even the exquisitely slow slide into her was arching his back downwards. He gritted his teeth, and she cried out so loud _someone_ in the hotel had to have heard them, but he really couldn't care at that point. He swore lowly, pushing in all the way to the hilt, and everything was bathed in blessed warmth.

Breathing, low and ragged between them as he lay his forhead against hers, just being able to squint his eyes open to catch her gaze, glazed over with heady lust and pleasure, and he pulled back, and began a slow, yet unbelievably satisfying rhythim.

It was deep and strong and controlled. Her fingers clenched in his hair, and once he thought about what he was doing, and who he was doing this with, it only drove his need up further and his pace quickened. He thumped his fist off the bed, and she arched desperately towards him when his thrusts became shallower and faster, her legs curling around his waist, skin soft as it slid against his.

He groaned, low and hard, his mouth beside her ear at a particularly _tight_ clench, and drove harder, pacing further, her own moans loud, verging on dry sobs and deep, unguarded panting, so different from the sounds he heard her make every other time he's known her.

The only thing that mattered was going faster, deeper. He forgot about drawing it out, now there was only the race for completion, the need to keep going. Still managing his pace, pushing her hips back down hard into the bed with his own, he detached her left leg from around his waist, and bent it back with a hand under her knee, combining the movement with a brutal thrust and he choked as it took him deeper.

Her moans reached considerably higher pitch and volume, she was clawing at his back, drawing blood between the rough snaps of his hips, and the harshness of every thrust was remarkably euphoric. It couldn't have been more desperate to reach their points, overridding all other needs and senses and traces of their rank and dignity, all that remained was the act, and that it consumed them until there was nothing more to the world.

She swore violently, head thrown back, mouth closing over his lower lip for a second, then managing to utter through her sobbing pants, "_Please_, Vossler…" and then nothing more, when it became too much, and she could only meet his thrusts with a lift from her own hips.

He didn't bother drawing it out. Instead, he complied with her suggestion, regardless of rank, and kept going. The tension was building in her, and he could feel it too, the icy feeling pouring down his back, his ragged breaths dissipating into low moans and swear words.

Fatil drove her nails into his mucled back, and he shuddered at the feeling of her clench and tighten desperately around him as she arched hard, a strangled shout as her orgasm finally hit her, moaning his name in a way he'll never forget. And it only took but two or three more brutal thrusts before he arched too, his vision going black, his arms refusing to hold him up as he was overwhelmed with completion. A harsh snarl, pressed against the heaving, sweating woman beneath him, and they both became boneless in a heap on the bed, breathing hard. He let go of her shaking knee, and she let her leg fall with a thump to the bed.

Her hands, warmed now by their activity, splayed over his back, soothing the scrape marks she left, his head burried in the junction of her neck and shoulder, still panting from exertion. The hand previously beneath Fatil's knee travelled up her side, beneath her ribs, over a heaving breast, to her chin and cupped her face, and his kissed her, surprisingly gentle compared to the kissed they have shared previously.

He forgot when he eased out of her and onto his back, he forgot when they got the blankets and wrapped them over each other, but the only thing that mattered at that point was sleep, and he was only too happy to take it, with Fatil in his arms, back against his chest, her hair dampened with sweat.

Gods, she was beautiful.


End file.
